Holding Place for BGE
by AnimeMangaAngel
Summary: Since I started writing my other story, Behind Glowing Eyes, out of order (and realized I don't know how to update and still keep the chapters in numerical order) this will be the temp home of the chapters as written until their place is reached numerically. Chapters rated individually.
1. Part 25 - In Triplicate

**Title: In Triplicate**

**Rating: **T (16+)

**Summary: **The triskelion is more than just a brand on his skin.

**Warnings:** This is my first TW fic (in spite of being number 25 in this compilation); mild Sterek; burn injuries; tattooing; minor character deaths off-screen

**ETA (7/10/14): **Just added hints of Cora, to stick with the continuum I've built; if you want to re-read you're welcome to it, of course, but the changes are really minor.

**BGE**

Tattoo Artist: "He's right, tattooing goes back thousands of years. The Tahitian word _tattooa_ means to leave a mark – like a rite of passage."

-_Teen Wolf_, season 3 episode 1, "Tattoo"

**-IT-**

When Derek was seven, his father made a new, iron doorknocker for his mother.

Hailey Hale nee Wilson – a tiny woman with long black curls and piercing grey-green eyes – was a bitten wolf. It happened in her late twenties, and led to her meeting the man she'd eventually marry, Garrett, in a neighboring pack. Even through her Change, one thing had always been a constant: her mothering instinct. Part of that drive shifted with the birth of the first Hale child, into a desire to provide a suitable home for her family.

On the other hand, Garrett Hale was a born werewolf, eldest and only son of the renown Hale Pack – well known in the werewolf community for its size, prosperity, and ability to live among humans without discovery. His Change was literally in his blood, and he'd grown up with abilities greater than the humans that populated the world around him. He proved to be a powerful figure, with broad shoulders and hard brown eyes. At a young age, Garrett took up crafts of all kinds – woodwork, metalwork, and masonry – in an effort to channel his strength, and train himself to react gently. His brother Peter insisted that he was gay – because only gay men took up crafts instead of sports to learn how to gauge one's power around humans – and was proven wrong by the arrival of Hailey.

It was family lore that part of how Garrett won her over was his ability with crafts – the year after Derek was born, Peter began to insist that his sister-in-law had been won over when her boyfriend had given her a house he'd built himself after proposing to her. Every year she got three new things from him – for her birthday, their anniversary, and Christmas. Most of their furniture, Laura and Derek's baby toys, some of Hailey's jewelry, and trinkets around the house were all Garrett's handiwork.

So, when Derek was seven, his father made a new, iron doorknocker for his mother. It was a triple spiral – a triskelion.

Hailey loved it, citing her favorite view of the three arms: mother, father, children – a family. Her fingers always traced over the top spiral the most, following the iron arm three times as she murmured under her breath, "Laura, Derek, Cora. The Children. My hearts." And then like clockwork, she would follow the curl and trace her finger over the lower right arm, "Garret. The Father. My husband." She dubbed the lower left, "And Hailey. The Mother. Me."

She traced it slow and careful on lazy days when no one had to go anywhere or do anything, every time she passed the front door – going so far as to open it if it was closed. On days where she passed by the door because she had somewhere to go, but it wasn't urgent, her finger trailed quick and light over the knocker as a whole and her mouth carefully found the words. And on the days when emergency sprung unexpected, her fingers wouldn't even touch the metal, and she would automatically breathe the words as she passed the threshold.

For a while, that was what the innocent symbol meant to Derek, too. Then his father took him and his sisters aside to explain what it meant to their family as an influential Pack. His fingers followed the same path – top, lower right, lower left – but his words were different. "Present. Future. Past. Don't forget, you both claim the Hale name. Laura, you will be the next Alpha, and Derek, your children will bear our name. Cora, you won't carry on our name, but you _will_ carry on the honor and ties of the Hale Pack to another. You must always remember how time folds in on itself. Connections made in the past – enemies, friends, allies, adversaries – will always have a place in your present and future, will always have an influence on who you grew to be once, how you are who you are, and by what means you will become who you become. Time is fluid, and what you do affects what you will do. My choices as an Alpha will affect your choices, and yours will affect your pups."

And this was what the triple spiral knocker on his front door meant to Derek, and it was good.

**-IT-**

When Derek was fourteen, Laura chose to spend the evening with a friend, and he himself stayed late at practice.

To be nearly home, and see the dark plume of smoke billowing above the treetops—to smell the acrid stench of burning fur and skin—to hear louder, and louder the closer he got, the _snap_ then _crackle _and then _roar_ of a hungry flame—to taste the grey ashes on his tongue as the wind turned… It was unspeakable.

Numb fingers dropped his school bag. He tuned out the screams of panicked, trapped Pack in a desperate bid to avoid madness. His eyes passed like glass over the shadowy figure in the tree line that… looked like… no! Not now! With a wild howl, he raced at the front door, intent on knocking it in and freeing his family.

His first strike brought him nose-to-wood with the door, and while it shuddered, it did not move. The dull red of a super-heated knocker blazed in his vision as he backed up to try again. Another howl, another race, another earth-shattering crash that didn't quite loose the door. Shaking his head to clear the ringing (screaming), Derek growled, and decided to put his shoulder into it this time.

Just as his left shoulder slammed into the wood, a violent gun shot sliced the air above the roar of the flames. The wood of the door, overstressed by the fire on one end, Derek's frantic efforts, and the gunshot, splintered, and Derek's momentum sent him tumbling to his back. As he toppled over, his traitor eyes registered the sight, and his traitor mind believed it, of his girlfriend, of Kate. A gun was trained expertly on him, and her eyes glittered with madness.

And then it was all over in white-hot burn. The red-hot iron found the space between his shoulder blades as both he and the knocker succumbed to gravity, and was turned white-hot as a flash-flare – drawn by the rush of oxygen presented by the suddenly-opened door – seared his back and threw him out into the lawn. Landing face-first, the iron stuck to his skin, burningburning_burning_, the skin bubbling and blackening even as the iron cooled. Derek didn't have enough breath to scream; didn't have enough presence of mind to move, because the screams not his own had _stopped;_ didn't lift his head, not wanting to see the haunting specter of a woman he'd trusted watching his whole _world_ fall apart.

Derek left himself go. (he never noticed a tiny figure stumble out the open door; she passed him, thinking him dead, lying there so still)

A hysterical Laura woke him, shaking his shoulder frantically. She'd come just as soon as she felt the mantle of Alpha fall to her. She'd seen him lying free of the hungry remains of their home, a tendril of smoke curling from his back, and feared the worst. She hauled him into a sitting position, and with a tiny squelch the cooled metal of the mostly-melted knocker unstuck from its heated grasp of his skin as he struggled to heal.

The ambulances and police cars arrived quickly, but not soon enough. Derek couldn't feel any of the Pack (except Laura); his home was a smoldering ruins; and the symbol both his parents had cherished was burned into his flesh beyond his ability to heal. He had what had been deemed impossible: a scar.

It was a scar. A bold, irreversible reminder seared into his skin of his inability to save his Pack. A brand that he would have to see every time he looked at his back in the mirror. A sick, hollow reminder of his mother's love of family, and his father's sense of duty as Pack Alpha.

And that, now, was what the tri-armed brand of black on his back meant to Derek, and it was bad.

**-IT-**

When Derek was twenty-four, in the midst of an Alpha Pack encroaching on Beacon Hills, he was approached by Scott with a request that brought memories pouring over him.

It was an accident that he'd discovered a method of 'tattooing' a healing-capable werewolf. Scott asking him how, referring to the brand between his shoulder blades… Derek had long ago buried the bad memories (and the good—it was better to be numb) behind the mark, but it was still difficult.

Flicking the torch on, telling Stiles to hold Scott down – it was only by virtue of Derek's self-control that he didn't shake. Smelling the cooking flesh, hearing the bloodcurdling screams, watching Stiles' knuckles go white as the 147 pound human struggled to hold back his werewolf best friend, though, he began to sweat. It, ironically, only got worse when Scott blacked out.

"… Derek?"

"_What_ Stiles?" he growled, trying to keep the sense-memories at bay.

"Are you… you know, oaky?

Grunting ambiguously had never failed him before. His nose wrinkled minutely against the growing stench of burnt flesh.

"I just—That is, we're, you know, um, _here_, and—Well you're currently wielding a _blowtorch_ against a—Well, Scott's not your _friend,_ according to you, but… And here, in this _house, _and—"

Derek whipped his head up, holding steady, red bleeding into his eyes menacingly. The noise he loosed was more of a rumble deep in his chest than any human warning; Stiles shrunk back. His face was a riot of conflicting emotions (and if one of them proved to be pity, Derek would _not _be held responsible for his actions), and he couldn't seem to drag his honey-colored eyes away from Derek.

"I was just concerned, man. I know part of your past in this house; I have a good idea what fire must do to you; and having both in this place – against living skin – I just imagined wouldn't be the best thing ever for you. Is all."

Derek ignored him, lifting up Scott's arm to get underneath, while grabbing for a handy length of metal to help define the sharp shape of the tattoo bands. As he brought the torch back around to the blackened-not-yet-healed skin on top, with the shiny double band of metal placed too brightly over it, Stiles let go of Scott's shoulders. The strips of metal slowly colored with the applied heat, and – even unconscious – Scott whined high in his throat, though he didn't squirm. As Derek slowly tracked the metal – lifting with tiny suctioned noises when the super-heated metal strove to stick to crispy skin – around Scott's ravaged bicep, Stiles slowly crept closer to Derek. The one time Derek looked over through the corner of his eye, he looked away just as quickly, those gold eyes glowing too oddly in the firelight.

With one final turn, the deed was done. His own unwilling tattoo throbbed.

Before he realized what he was doing, the cherry-red, skin-stuck metal had been flung too hard (as far away as can be), dropping into the dirt just outside of the house. It took a moment of heavy breathing to realize the ringing in his ears was partially a left-over of his own broken shout. Consciously this time, the blowtorch followed suit, in the opposite direction, and then Derek shoved away from the unconscious (burned, burned by _him,_ breathing – the teen's still breathing, right?!) Scott, and curled into himself.

"Whoa! God! Derek, dude, what the hell?!"

"Derek?"

"Aww man, dude… This is a panic attack. I used to have them all the time; just breathe with me. Hey, hey – come on, dude, breathe with me. In, out. Feel that? In, out."

"That's right. You're okay. That's it: just breathe. You're alright."

When Stiles stopped sounding like he was coming from under water, Derek finally began to recognize what his own skin felt like again. Nervous ants crawled all over his body, and he was shaking faintly, but it was getting better. The feel of Stiles plastered full-body along his back, arms desperately tight around Derek, squeezing hard enough that he would have bruised were he human was grounding. Derek clung to the feel of someone else right there with him… Pressed tight enough against his back that the throbbing of his tattoo was gone, pressed close enough that the smell of burnt skin was muted under familiar spice.

Abruptly, Derek realized that he'd partially wolfed out, and that the long claws of his right hand were digging bloody furrows into Stiles' wrist where he'd gripped it tight. He dragged in a deep breath, head spinning with the sudden influx of oxygen, and slowly forced his cramped fingers to release their grip. As he did that, Stiles sighed gratefully into his ear and murmured, "Hey, man. You with me? Derek?"

"I… yeah." Derek rasped, still tense. "You should… get those looked at."

They slowly separated, Stiles eyes searching Derek's face. He was serious, and quiet.

"… sorry." Derek turned away to grab the first aid kit that Scott had dragged along with them when they brought Isaac in. He gathered up alcohol wipes, antiseptic cream, gauze, and medical tape, and laid them on the floor in front of the kneeling Stiles. Gently, Derek grabbed his arm and brought it close to a sharply-scented wipe.

Stiles watched his ministration, wincing faintly as the alcohol stung the claw-shaped grooves in his skin. He chewed pensively on his lower lip, and stayed still as Derek meticulously cleaned the blood away. "Don't worry about it, really: Forgiven and forgotten. Seriously. It's no big deal. I get hurt worse chasing down, oh I don't know, rabid werewolves and murderous kanima's," he grinned unrepentantly at Derek, obviously trying to lighten the mood. "I _have_ gotten worse. And you were… well, you were panicking, you know? Nobody would blame you for needing to hold onto something in a moment of desperation. But…"

Derek waited tensely as he put the wipes aside and began to apply the cream. Finally, he couldn't take the suspense, and grumbled softly, too gruffly, nervous, "But what?"

"But," Stiles lifted his uninjured arm to Derek's shoulder, waiting until wary grey-green eyes met his own, and coaxed, "_but,_ something made you freak out. And I know – from my own experiences, at least – that it helps to talk about it if you never have before. You don't have to. I know we don't, um, have the best history in the world. But, really, if you think it'll help… I mean, I'm here to listen. You know. Just in case."

They both watched silently as Derek carefully applied the tiny gauze pads to the four-and-one wounds, the white standing out sharply against skin that was slowly but surely bruising, connecting the marks in a violent parody of a hand on his arm. Derek's lips were pinched, and his eyes were focused too hard on Stiles' arm as he gently taped the gauze down.

"I…" he started. His hand came down, over-warm palm covering the white bandages, and his breath hitched. Stiles sat and waited patiently, unmoving, unthreatening, nonjudgmental. "I got my… _tattoo_ the day my—The day the—When _this,_" he gestured impatiently at the ruins of the house around them, "happened. Nobody knew how to permanently mark a werewolf before then. I—" he faltered again.

There was no reason to be telling Stiles this. Stiles had no bearing on his past, no reason to hear his sob-story. There was no telling what Stiles would do with this information… but no matter what went through his head, Derek couldn't see a conceivable future where Stiles used this moment of weakness against him; that just wasn't Stiles' style.

He was staring at his dark hand over Stiles' pale skin, breathing tight again. A slender, calloused, too-breakable hand entered his vision, grasped his chin, and lifted his eyes to meet an open gold gaze. Stiles didn't say anything, didn't move, didn't smile or frown or sneer. But everything about him radiated a sense of brotherhood (and didn't he loose his mom when he was young, or something?), an understanding deeper than skin, a comfortable air of _it will be okay._

And with Isaac – unconscious, still injured – in the corner, and Scott – also unconscious, still shiny with pain-sweat – slumped in his chair behind them, Derek spilled his guts to Stiles. Uncovered the good and the bad of the spiral and his brand. The tension bled out of his body. When Derek refused to cry, tears poured down Stiles' face instead.

Somehow or another, Derek ended up with the neck of his shirt pressed tight against his throat as Stiles pulled at the back, revealing the brand. His fingers traced it (just like Mom, just like Dad), and he breathed it's meaning according to Derek (because he couldn't-wouldn't take what had been his mom's or dad's meanings) with a quiet reverence, "Alpha, Beta, Omega." Derek shivered.

"It's… It fits you, Derek." That's it; no platitudes, no flowers, just flat statement. He was grateful: if Stiles had tried any pity Derek would have taken his head off. "It means something to you – something more than just a reminder of your past. You wear it like a symbol of your family, but also like a mark of who you can become. It fits."

The heat of Stiles' hand across the brand – Stiles' knowledge – made new what was old. The deeper memories were still good. The deepest nightmares were still bad. The scent of burnt flesh in the hollow old house, the recent memory of agonized screams, the willing mark from himself to another – those would take time for him to get over.

Dry, chapped lips pressed fleetingly against the center of the mark. Derek couldn't hold back a shiver, even if he did so without a sound. It was a lot like a burn which has finally transitioned from painful wound to shiny, dead-nerved scar. Stiles was right: He could wear the brand—the triple spiral—the _triskelion_, the symbol, with pride. It wasn't about what had been anymore. It wasn't about what was. It was about what had the potential to be.

(The potential for a born wolf to find a Changed wolf and build a family. The potential for a born Beta to rise to the challenge of being part of a broken Pack. The potential for a child to survive the crushing horror of burning and the shattering guilt of betrayal and manipulation. The potential for a man to return, and to make something new for not only himself, but for those needy few who also desperately needed a Pack - and an Alpha-once-Beta - of their own. The potential for a new-better-fuller forest to grow after the old has burned down. The potential for a Mate in one distracting, energetic, gangly young man, perhaps.)

That would always be what the triskelion of his Pack meant to Derek. And it was hope.


	2. Part 21 - Ember

**Title: Ember**

**Rating:** T (16+)

**Summary****:** Stiles doesn't like his name, so he goes by 'Stiles'. Stiles doesn't like to lie, but he has no choice.

The two are connected, in a memory that leaves shiny, persistent, painful burn scars (that no one sees... he wishes someone would).

**Warnings:** Mama Stilinski death which is witnessed by kid!Stiles; depression

**A/N - **This was actually the second written in this series, even as part 21. It is one big ball of angst; sorry about that. It hit me like a brick in the head, and I wrote it in fifteen minutes - the quickest one-shot I've ever produced. So I'm proud of it, but still. I _do_ love Stiles, you know. Really, I do.

**BGE**

Stiles doesn't like his name.

It's the last word his mother said (blood spilling wet and fast out of her mouth), so Stiles doesn't like it. Whenever he hears it, his ears roar and he can't breathe, because all he hears are her wheezing, panicked breaths. The only two people in the world alive who know his name know not to say it; nobody else knows it, so that's okay.

Stiles doesn't like to lie.

The first time he lied (because Stiles was raised to tell the truth, and he loved his parents) was to his father. John found him, asked him what happened. He said he didn't know – when he had finally gotten back up, she was like this. It doesn't matter that Stiles doesn't like to lie, especially not to his father; it seems like the older he gets, the more he ends up lying, though. The people who know it don't tell John; what John doesn't know can still hurt him, so it's still not okay.

Stiles isn't fond of parties.

The first time he went to a party he was too young to remember it; the last time he went to a party was because Scott dragged him (and nothing happened, so Stiles is dealing with it); it was a party in the middle that ruined it all for him. Someone spiked Lydia's punch. Stiles saw… God, it was everything he is most scared of all at once. He hallucinated that John knew. John called him by his _name_, and knew Stiles' lies – _all_ of them. And John blamed him (as Stiles knows John will if the Sheriff ever learns the truth), as he should. It hurt. So Stiles isn't fond of parties, but it could be it should be alcohol that he is picky about, but… well, he doesn't know what her punch was spiked _with_, and he likes the free feeling of being drunk too much (he blames the inherent alcoholism in his genes) to immediately assume that it was the culprit.

He doesn't tell John about the werewolves because he doesn't want his father to get as caught up in it as he is, doesn't want his father to get hurt. John is all Stiles has left, and if John died because of something Stiles led him to…

_"Genim! You killed your mother. You killed her and now you're killing me."_

**-Ember-**

He was ten. He was two months and four days away from meeting an awesome boy named Scott. He was three days away from starting the fifth grade. He was on his last day of seeing his mother alive, and one day away from seeing his father drunk for the first (but not last) time. It was his fault.

It was Amanda's day off, and summer break for Stiles. She let him sleep in, made him breakfast, and played video games with him all morning. They went out front after lunch, and she played catch with him. It was his fault.

He'd known since he was five years old to watch the street before he walked into it. He'd known since he was three that sometimes balls didn't go where you threw them. He'd known since forever that Amanda would do whatever she could to protect him, love him, and make him happy. It was his fault.

She was chasing him when she threw the ball – somewhere in the middle, it had become less 'catch' and more 'run and tumble and occasionally throw a projectile'. It went just over his head (he remembers the rough feel of the ball skating over his fingertips; that's why he plays a sport where he doesn't have to _touch_ a ball, though no one's ever asked). He turned around and chased after it. She screamed at him to stop. It was his fault.

He did stop – or, tried to, anyway. Loose gravel at the end of the driveway sent him sprawling when he froze. It was his fault.

He still has nightmares sometimes – vicious, vivid things, even worse than some of the shit that werewolves have brought into his life – about that car. He had fallen, spread across the neighborhood road, all gangly limbs and no muscle (because of the stupid Adderall: it was either grow _up,_ but too skinny to be healthy, or forever remain too short to be reasonable, because the meds stunt growth), and his head had turned to the side. Black and white sparkles had danced across his vision, because he had hit his head on the asphalt a little hard. It had taken a bit of blinking to see the car that he could _hear._ It was a dark blue monster, its black wheels bearing down on his face like a grim reaper out of the old stories. It was his fault.

Amanda had grabbed his ankles (and her grip had bruised; days after the fact, the ghost of her hands remained wrapped around his skin in blue and purple and green bands of shape) and (he hates his ankles) _pulled._ The force of it had raked his back over the gravel, tearing his skin, and had thrown her forward over him at the same time. Her skin had been soft and warm, her scent familiar and comforting. It was his fault.

The SUV would have gone on by without incident (it was in the middle of a swerve, finally noticing he had been in its way), both of them clear of its path. But Stiles' reflexes caught up with him, far, _far_ too late. It was his fault.

Fear lends strength. In the middle of a disaster, there are miracle stories of men doing things that are impossible, and saving lives because of it. You never hear the stories where those super-human reflexes get someone killed. It happens; everything happens once. It was his fault.

He kicked up, striking her stomach, his body still sure he needed to get away. His belated scream covered her breathless grunt. His hands and her hands, gripping each other's shoulders too tight, acted like a freakish fulcrum. When his kick sent her body up, his hands kept her shoulders down. She landed on her back in the middle of the road, her adult body much longer than his, and for a split second their heads touched, his arms clutching her shoulders, and hers his. Already, his body was completing the evasive maneuver and flipping over to sit up. It was his fault.

If life was in any way kind, he would have at least been slow enough to avoid seeing it happen. But he had time to sit up. To hear the screech of brakes. To meet her wide, amber eyes (he had her eyes, and his father hated it, even if John never said anything: John couldn't look him in the eye when he was drunk). And then to watch her face covered by bright tire rims, too-dark rubber spinning too fast, and dark blue paint. To hear the literal _crunch_ of her skull, the gurgling silence of her ruined throat. It was his fault.

He never saw the SUV drive off; his gaze was frozen on his mother's face. Her make-up didn't matter; her face was too pale, and where blood ran (everywhere) too red; the gold of her eyes was dimming too quick, and not focused. It was his fault.

"Ggg…" she slurred, and he began rocking, because before she got to the second sound, he knew what she was trying to say. "G…n…m… L'v…" And her sentence choked off in a wet gurgle before stopping utterly. It was his fault.

It was his fault.

It was his fault.

(Later, he would not speak for a week, his throat too raw from screaming, desperately, for fifteen minutes straight. His first words would be an entreaty – too blank, too flat, to be his voice – that no one _ever, **ever **_call him by his name again. It would be another month before he spoke again, whereupon he would, oddly, never shut up.) It was his fault.

**-Ember-**

He didn't like his name, and so he gave himself a new one. 'Stiles' – "a structure which provides people a passage through or over a fence or boundary via steps, ladders, or narrow gaps". His new name would be his passage – the thing that allowed him to survive the crushing _guilt_ of his mother's murder – from pre-accident to post-accident. There were countless cultures that gave their people new names at coming-of-age ceremonies… if unwillingly being the cause of your own mother's murder wasn't a growing up experience, he didn't know what was.

He didn't like lying, but after watching in his silence as his father grieved, Stiles knew he would _never_ be able to tell John. The older man was often helpless after Stiles' nightmares for years afterward, because his son would clam up, just wanting to be held. It was his fault, and he couldn't even seek the full comfort of knowing, absolving parental arms... he had to settle for a desperate grasp that didn't (couldn't) understand and still, _still_ tried so hard to help Stiles. The panic attacks weren't even as bad as waking up at night like that.

And to keep John safe, he kept lying. Because Mom was _his fault_ and he would literally _die_ before Dad became his fault, too.

No one knew; the wolves continued to try and convince him to tell John. That was okay: they cared about Stiles, and were doing the only thing they knew to do, _because_ they cared. Didn't mean he was going to, didn't mean they understood, but it was okay.

And every day, the weight of his name burned a life into his heart. And every day the weight of his secret cast a blazing, unforgiving light on his soul that only he could see. And every day, the weight of every new secret, every inch of distance, (every moment of safety), every moment of discontent between he and John where it had once been so happy, ate at his self-confidence and self-worth.

It was his fault she was dead.

It would be his fault if John died.

His faults burned like an ember he couldn't put out. One day, Stiles would burn to death.

(Unless someone – who was trapped just as much – put it out… Together. The Hale Fire wasn't Derek's fault.)


	3. Part 29 - This is Why

**Title: ****This is Why**

**Rating: ****T (16+)**

**Summary:** This is why: Stiles wants to remain human; why: Derek went to Jennifer; why: Alan can stay as calm as he does.

**Warnings: **Spoilers S3E5, last episode-compliant chapter in this series because I've realized I'm slowly ending up with my own canon, pre-Sterek, canon-typical injury, original Deaton back-story (including mention of a deceased OFC Mate), apathetically-suicidal character, depression, language

**A/N: **The first part was inspired by this post on tumblr (minus the spaces) – audrey1nd. tumblr post/54449117283/honestly-sometimes-the-idea-of-st iles-with; the second by this post (again, no spaces) – katiemorritt. tumblr post/54422820719/no-for-real-why-on-earth-did-dere k-go-to-jennifer; and the third just kind of spilled out of me (Alan wanted a solid place in my BGEverse, I guess. This is mainly the reason I've decided to depart from canon here. Once I've got fics for the other episodes [because as-of this posting this was written out-of-order], I'll start really developing this universe, starting with Part 30.)

**BGE**

Stiles is observant. Like, scarily observant.

It's not something that anyone has ever noticed before – but then, Stiles has built his personality around hiding it, so that's not surprising. His mother had always been adamant about keeping it secret; people wouldn't understand._ Genim, baby,_ he can remember his mother saying, _you're special. Don't forget that. Don't ignore it. And don't let it take you away._

She was special, too. She called it having a 'Spark'. (He'd forgotten about it… until Dr. Deaton mentioned it.) For Amanda Stilinski, it manifested in love and care: any unruly child she met instantly loved her and obeyed her; all plants she handled flourished; any crying baby could be soothed; animals never attacked her, some even going so far as to out-right approach her… She simply exuded the air of one who would – and _could – _care for everyone and everything around her, to the best of her ability and beyond. It was like… magic.

(The spot she died in – the edge of their old front lawn, the house sold mere weeks after her burial – still refuses to grow anything, a small patch of dirt next to the street in an otherwise flourishing lawn, six years old.)

John was never told. _Your Daddy wouldn't know how to save the town, baby. He's so determined to save everyone – especially as the Sheriff – that if we told him there was more out there… He would drive himself crazy trying to look for what most humans can't see until it threatens to eat them,_ his mother said. Those words echo especially loud in his ears every time he wants to cave, and tell John about the Hale Pack. He's already lost – and been the reason he lost her – Mom; he can't be the reason for – simply can't exist without, whatever the cause – his Dad, too.

So for Stiles, his Spark manifests in observation. Dr. Deaton had described it as belief, and that's true – but only because that is the direction that his Spark takes. Because he sees so much _more_ than anyone else (hello – noticing Scott and his werewolfism from the start, anyone?) he _believes_ what he sees. It can go the other way, too. If he can believe it exists, his Spark will make it happen, allowing him to observe it.

Stiles observes with all of his senses – sight, smell, hearing, touch, and taste. He is aware of so much more than the average human because of this. As far as anyone is aware, the humans think it's ADHD, so that's how they treat his overwhelmed mind: dope him up in the hopes of focusing him. The Adderall works, alright. He can focus more with it, and isn't so overwhelmed by all the input, because the meds allow his perceptions to keep up.

He noticed when Scott became a werewolf. He noticed Derek's and Deaton's connections to their 'new' werewolf problems. He noticed Lydia's and Jackson's issues. He noticed – and was captured by, but let's not dwell on that – both Peter and Gerard. Hell, he noticed Allison and Lydia as they _followed the lacrosse team's bus! And Scott_ – Mr. Werewolf – **_didn't!_** And on top of all _that_, he is still the researcher of the Pack; he even sees the connections well enough to read up on them.

That's why Stiles doesn't want to be a werewolf. He already has too much sensory information – too much inhuman ability – to deal with as it is. He doesn't want to become a wolf, and augment his senses even further. As much as he loves the Pack and is jealous of their physical ability (and his own rather sorry 147 pounds of sarcasm), he _relishes_ his sanity.

So, no. Stiles will never choose to be a werewolf. His mother's Spark saw to that.

**-TiW-**

He should have died.

Many werewolves can handle being dropped from monumental heights. Many can handle being attacked by an Alpha of incredible strength. Not both. He shouldn't have survived.

Derek came-to face-first in a puddle outside of the dilapidated mall that had been their battle ground, sputtering weakly. He guessed they'd just left him to drown, figuring he'd lack the strength to lift his own head. He should have.

He was too weak; right now, he was beyond a liability to his Pack. He had to get to safety. If the Alpha's caught wind of him, and really killed him, his Pack would be in trouble. Honestly, he expected Scott would probably step up – that kid had the heart of a child, and the mind of a leader – but that didn't mean that the Hale Pack wouldn't be rattled by his death.

Derek was a creature of habit – habit, and severe trust issues. There was only so many places he could go.

His first instinct – his wolf – demanded he go to his den. Den was safe. Den was a place he could deal, and was defensible. The only problem with that: a) his (first-choice den) Loft was on the other side of town, and he would be hard-pressed to go two _blocks_ right now; b) his (second-choice den) Camero, much- and long-loved as it was, had to be traded in, and the new car just doesn't cut it yet (and was also parked at the Loft, besides); and c) his (last-choice but original den) burnt-out husk of a home is, in spite of being in the opposite direction of the Loft, is nearly as far away.

Since denning wasn't an option, he would have to go to a person.

The _trusted_ members of his Pack – Scott, Stiles, Isaac, and Boyd – were all completely out of town. As their Alpha, and especially badly injured, he could _feel_ their absence, like a festering wound.

The other two… Well, he _loved_ Cora (and how couldn't he, she was his _little sister)_, but that didn't mean he knew her well enough after a six-year absence fraught with physically and emotionally taxing moments to _trust _her.

Peter killed Laura. Derek _loved _Laura. The only reason Peter wasn't dead (again) was because Derek was concerned that his traitor of an Uncle would find yet another way to come back. It was better to keep your enemies close, to know what they might be up to. Derek neither loved nor trusted Peter; wouldn't go to him asking for a _nickel_, let alone assistance for his _life._

Trust was a difficult thing for Derek to come by. There was no question about that. He'd come to believe that Alan Deaton would help his Pack when it came down to it – trusted the man to be invested enough in Scott and Stiles to want to honestly help the Pack – but that didn't mean he trusted the vet-cum-werewolf doctor to help _him_ in his time of need, without his Pack around, and when both Scott and Stiles had been so vocal about their distrust of him at one time.

While Derek believed that Chris no longer held any animosity for his Pack… Well, his instincts just rebelled against the notion of a werewolf (especially Alpha) going to a (even if former) Hunter for help. It just wasn't done.

The only other person he knew (that also knew about the werewolf issue, which thus didn't include the Sheriff, who was more likely to arrest than assist him, anyway) was Melissa McCall. He'd seen how well she fell into their world – he'd watched with something close to awe as this _human woman_ began to treat her werewolf son in the same way that any werewolf mother dealt with her pups. Derek knew a natural when he saw one, and he wouldn't be surprised if the day came that woman _requested_ the Bite. He _almost_ trusted her – in this case, the fact that she was Scott's mother was enough for this moment. But that didn't do him any good if Scott and Stiles were in the same neighborhood – and they were – and the school was close enough to this mall for kids to walk to it – and it was – and add that to the fact that Stiles drove Scott to school every day… Melissa was just too far away.

Really, if Derek was being honest with himself, he only trusted two people right now, out of _all _the people he knew. Scott and Stiles. Boyd and Isaac were still impulsive pups; Cora was an unknown; Peter was a bastard; Lydia was bound to Peter, as much as it was involuntary; Chris was a former Hunter, and an Argent; Allison was a post-crazy, maybe-sympathetic, but also Argent Hunter; Melissa would protect her son above all else; same with John Stilinski, plus his ignorance; Alan was more of a mystery than anything; he had only met Jennifer a grand total of twice; and it was obvious why he didn't trust the Alpha Pack. He really knew very few people in the grand scheme of things.

As much as he trusted Scott, though, he trusted Stiles more. Stiles was the one whose room he could sneak into, the one he could trust to saw off his arm, the one who held him above water for two hours, the one who – if it came down to it – loved his father, but would probably leave the man, if it meant keeping John safe (a thing Scoot had already proved unwilling to do). He wanted Stiles. Even just Stiles' _room_! But it was as far away as anything else.

In an effort to get himself somewhere safe, as he thought, Derek had been dragging himself along. Having eliminated every option, when he stumbled into the school parking lot and caught a whiff of _something_ familiar, he moved towards it.

He really regretted leaving a bloody handprint on the nice school teacher's car (couldn't abide by it – Stiles' Jeep was the only one that had been christened by his blood, aside from his precious Camaro!), but he was already losing consciousness. As he faded, he imagined that her eyes glowed golden, her long dark hair shortened, and her concerned face grew horrified but determined.

He really missed Stiles. Trust was hard to come by.

**-TiW-**

Alan Deaton would like it known for the record that he used to act as liaison for the Hale Pack in its prime, as he acts for Scott and the new pups of the Hale Pack now.

He was raised in a Pack of his own, a human with the Spark. He was determined never to receive the Bite… and just as determined to save his Pack from any trouble that might befall them.

He learned what it meant to live with Pack as a human. He researched all manner of magics that his Spark seemed to resonate with (mostly Druidic, as evidenced by the recent Druid murders that he could explain to Stiles). He has seen his fair share of supernatural dangers, human horrors, and death.

When he was found by his Pack – and _their _advisor-cum-veterinarian – he was firmly housed at Rock Bottom. His Pack lifted him out of the dirt, dusted him off, and gave him a home. He fell for the eldest of the Alpha pairs children, the woman who would become Alpha when they stepped down, and she fell for him. They'd been dating (deciding to take it slow, and Mate only if they married) for five years before he proposed to her.

The Pack was joyous when she accepted.

Then they found the young straggler named Joanna Morrell. Her family had been killed by Hunters as they sought a Packless Omega, and she was filled with rage and a desire for vengeance. They took her in, fostered her, and taught her what it meant to let go of her anger. A year later they sent her off to school to become a counselor, and Alan and his lady-love Mated and married.

A rogue band of vampires attacked their Pack, and decimated it in days. Alan found himself at Rock Bottom again, even worse off than before. He could not think of his Pack without breaking down, could not even think his Mate's _name_ without shattering like glass. He wandered for five years – without contacting Joanna – when he stumbled into the Hale Pack.

Their advisor had recently died (of old age, a strange end in this world of theirs), and they were in need of one. They offered him the position, and he accepted, eventually growing close enough to be comfortable with adopting the Pack; they could smell his old grief and let him go at his own pace. Then _they _died, too, and he swore he was done with it all.

It didn't work out like that, obviously. Joanna moved into Beacon Hills without knowing. Scott got Bitten. Derek returned. Jackson became a kanima, and then a werewolf. An Alpha Pack was encroaching on the Hale Pack lands.

Alan had seen enough in his time. He could see himself too easily in Stiles. He swore he'd do for this Pack what he couldn't do for his own, and maybe Stiles and Derek wouldn't end like he and his Mate had.

But that didn't mean he wouldn't welcome death. A person without a living Mate would never find anyone else, and would never again be whole. He would always miss her, and want to be with her. Just… while he was here, he would help the Hale Pack (because she would never forgive him if he committed suicide).

It wasn't his fault that his experiences made him knowledgeable (and, coincidentally, mysterious), nor was it his fault that his… not-exactly-happiness, his apathy for death, his quietly driven determination to prevent his misery in another, gave him what the pups of the Hale Pack often called creepy-calm, either.

He was just existing for them, until he could find her. However it happened.


End file.
